Half Dust, Half Deity
by Whiskey Priestess
Summary: In the moment between twilight and nightfall, he almost seems to shimmer, as if he's a deity that's seen fit to come and rescue me. Later that night, when he asks me my name and I only offer my same small smile, I learn a god's wrath. /Canon.
1. Prologue

**Warnings and Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to my pal Steph except the poem from which I filched a line for my title (Lord Byron's "Manfred," 1817).

The following is not some fluffy love tale about sparkly vampires. Well, actually, it is a love tale and there are glittery blood-suckers, but I've gone and replaced the fluff with trigger material and sensitive subject matter. Please proceed with care.

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My skin feels starched, like it could crackle, like I could split apart at the seams with the slightest touch.

Unrelenting sun will do that, and there's no escaping its scorching view while I'm under strict order to remain on this makeshift platform, so I bake. We all do. The girl beside me whimpers from time to time and tries to lift a hand to shield her eyes, but I'm no fool. We'd be whipped for movement, and so my own hands remain firmly clasped in front of me, though she tugs and tugs at the rope that binds us in line, burning its imprint into my skin.

I don't flinch. It's not as if it's the first time I've been branded.

Many come, dozens even. They pinch my slight frame and cast me aside for my lack of muscle. They ask me my name and think me unintelligent when all I offer is a thin smile. I'm not useful here, with my weak body and lack of charm. I'd do these men no good in bed, and the wives have no need of me in their kitchen.

I should think Master will just do away with me before the auction is up.

But Ra is not merciful—why should he be? I'm of little importance to him—and so I stand at attention and watch as other more blessed, cursed souls are led away. I begin to count each second as just another closer to the death that the sun is sure to dole out.

At day's end, when I'm the only girl left and Master is pulling me from the platform by lead of my thick braid, he appears. He ghosts over the hill, and in the moment between twilight and nightfall, he almost seems to shimmer, as if he's a deity that's seen fit to come and rescue me.

Later that night, when he asks me my name and I only offer my same small smile, I learn a god's wrath.

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**Author's Notes:** I have no idea what I'm doing.

Still, here we go. This is a short and sweet seven chapters, probably about six thousand words or so in total. The whole thing should be posted by the end of the month.


	2. Chapter One

I don't remember my name.

There are things I know about myself and my human life—that I have a deep love for purple, even though it's a color far above my station; how the drag of a whip across my back blisters and which masters were most merciful in sparing it—but I have little clue in the way of my own identity.

Amun merely calls me "Kebi." His honey. I ask what my true name is, and he tells me that he's just given me one.

At first I find myself spitting furious at his response, and it's terrifying. I blink, and he's pinned against a wall. I inhale a short breath and my hands are around his neck.

I just need to squeeze.

Oh, how I want to, want to feel the grind of his spinal cord. It's a craving—to bathe in his bone-dust, revel in my superior strength.

"Tell me. Tell me my name," I say, and flex my fingers.

"So you're thirsty, I take it," is his only reply, and I could kill him for denying me an answer again.

But . . . thirsty?

There _is_ something wrong with my throat; it's raw, raging. I wonder if the past three days of searing pain have burned away a layer of skin.

"Let's go hunting, yes? We'll find you something to sooth the itch."

He can make it stop?

"Hunting?" I echo, always echoing, and I'm careful not to inhale even one more breath of the thorned air that will tear my throat to shreds.

"You need blood, sweet Kebi."

Blood?

Blood.

Blood blood bloodblood_blood_.

Even the _word_ holds me in a vice grip, and then I'm truly awake in this life.

It's like going through the motions of waking up in a dream only to actually regain consciousness moments later, and how sharp and prickly reality is. The sands of the desert grit across one another with a high-pitched hum that gnaws into my eardrums; the air is bitter, arid—I can _taste_ the lack of moisture, _feel_ the atmosphere pinch my skin in a bid to steal what liquid is retained by my own body.

And then.

Then.

Then I can almost feel the creature's hair ripping under my hands, smell fear, hear its pitiful whine, envision the second when it loses all hope. I see that moment of true death.

I already taste the blood.

And I'm running, flying. I'm not even sure my feet are touching the ground, as I don't hear the shriek of sand shifting underfoot, and when I dare a glance back, there's not a grain displaced.

There is Amun, though.

He makes no move to conceal himself, so brazen is he in coming to steal my kill. He follows me with a confident stride that speaks of arrogance, of pride, and I wonder at the fact that he thinks me so pitiful a threat.

_My kill_, I say to him with my bared teeth, and he challenges me with his laughter. I answer with a lunge.

He's not laughing when I bite into his shoulder, and then I really am flying, hurtling through the air and falling with such speed. Hitting the earth with such force. I didn't expect this strength from another.

I hadn't thought he would backhand me like that.

I hadn't thought he could hurt me.

I don't know why not.

He should finish me now, leave me incapacitated and take the human for himself, but he's beside me in an instant. He's cradling me when he could be drinking the nectar I know to be a mere moment's sprint from where we sit in the sand.

"Oh, Kebi, I didn't mean to. I— I'm new to this. Forgive me," he says, and I wonder if he likes to play with his victims. I think if given the chance, I would. So I won't blame him.

Then he's gone from my side, and I should flee. I can find another human; it's illogical of me to consider following a being who's proven to be a competitor and an experienced one at that. So why is my first inclination to chase him?

Before I can make a decision either way, he returns, and he throws the girl down before me—an offering, a sacrifice, an apology?

"Drink," he orders, and I don't know what to think of this man, this man who seems to curl in on himself with every second I debate rejecting his gift.

My senses have catalogued everything else into predator and prey for me. There's no longer any need to make judgements. I can smell menace and hatred. I taste submission and terror.

All I taste of him is the heavy air of the desert after rainfall; all that fills my nostrils is the grassy scent of paper reed that means I'm home.

I sense nothing but completion.

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**Author's Notes: **I should be able to post again tomorrow. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter Two

He's terrifying, feral, hypnotizing. He's a vampire.

I know I am, too—the chest full of ripped and blood-stained garments in my room leaves little doubt—but during my more lucid hours, it's difficult to imagine myself as I see my mate now: snarling and snapping, wild. And over something so innocuous as a letter, at that.

I ask him for the fifth time what the parchment reads and am rewarded with yet another growl. There's no malice behind it, only pure frustration, but I avert my eyes anyway, decide to be patient and just wait him out.

He likes me sweet.

"They want us to visit," he finally says, and there's more to his eyes than fury. There's fear; it's an interesting color on him.

"The Volturi?"

"Who do you think?" he hisses, and I hold his gaze that extra beat in reproach of the tone. It's all I dare. It's all I need, for he sighs, beckons me to him.

His hold is suffocating, and I love it. Not out of any masochistic tendencies, but just for the fact that his tight grip leaves me well aware that, while he may be cradling me, it's for his comfort. I'm the sponge that soaks up all the tensions as he clings, and with me in his arms, the bravado's gone.

There's only his terror.

"I don't want them near you," he whispers into the crook of my neck, and I smile because he can't see. I know what it costs him to admit anything scares him, without excuses, without rationalizations. It's as close to a declaration of love as I'm ever going to get.

"It's only a mind-game," I say. How many times has he recounted the twisted ways of Aro to me? "We've no gifts for them to covet; they're just asserting their dominance now that they think they're kings. You told me they might try."

"I also told you they'd have to send a half a dozen of the guard to rip me apart and carry me there in pieces before I'd answer Aro's every beck and call. Convenient how you forget that part." He pulls back and taps me on the nose. I want to bite his condescending finger right off.

I smile bashfully instead.

"Isn't it, though?" I murmur, and his embrace crushes into my ribs, leaves no room for air in my diaphragm. If I was human, I'd collapse from the lack of breath. He'd murder me with his need.

I sometimes wonder if that's the only reason he changed me; he knew no frail, mortal form could take the love he had to give.

We both say nothing for a long stretch. Him presumably because he's lost in thought. Me because I have an opinion I know he won't agree with, and I don't want to argue. What I want is for him to take me to bed and remind me of all the other ways he can be feral.

"What aren't you saying?" he asks instead of kissing me.

"Nothing."

"No," he growls, frustrated again—this time at me—and my eyes drop to the floor. "That's what you _are_ saying. Tell me." My posture falls away, and I just slump into his arms.

"It's just a thought—"

"Eyes," he cuts me off, chucks me under the chin with impatience when I don't heed his command immediately and meet that iron gaze. I don't want to look at him. Amun's always one to scowl—whether he's just focusing all of his attention on you or you've truly awakened the always close to the surface fury—but when he's searching me out for lies . . .

I can deal with the searing blaze of a scowl; heat is no terror to those born of the desert. The cool calculation of a glare, though? The intensity as he reads my expression for a falsehood I haven't even thought up yet? It's a dagger in my gut.

But I know Amun doesn't offer second chances; there will be no leniency if I defy him on this. We will argue.

I can't. I can't fight with him right now. So I steel myself and meet his gaze.

"It's only my opinion," I caution, and am met with a long-suffering look, "but wouldn't it just be easier to give in on this? We go, they see us, they leave us alone. "

"That's not the point. I don't bow to them; I owe them nothing."

"I thought the point was to keep me safe?" I ask, my voice gentle, maybe even a bit weak.

Because what if that's not the point?

And now _I'm_ gripping _him_, holding on for dear life as I try to let go of the thought.

He chose me, he chose me, _he chose me_. He _made_ me. He'd _never_ leave me.

"Kebi," he says, "eyes," and he has to force me to look at him this time. There's no scowl, no glare, and our roles are reversed as I search his face for the words I need.

"You're the only point," he says, and I think the strength of my embrace may snap him in two.

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**Author's Notes:** Probably no updates until the end of the week. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter Three

Carlisle Cullen is golden.

Golden hair, golden eyes, and there's something to his aura—he glows like a prince descended from the heavens, and I want to offer up my sins, my secrets. I want him to paint them anew in my eyes with his radiant light.

He arrived with the rest of the British fleet, those tasked with driving Napoleon out of Egypt, but he was easily set apart by more than just his undead pallor. He wasn't a soldier, wasn't a killer.

As he sits across the table from me now, serene and civilised, I contemplate whether he even fits the definition of "vampire."

"You've been staying with the Volturi?" Amun asks, and I hear the suspicion laced through such a question. My mate is paranoid at best, but he's become downright manic since the Volturi took Demetri from us. Amun poured so much time into that boy-weapon, and when he was ripe and full of potential, Aro plucked him from our grasp.

I can't say I was all that upset. He was a nice enough boy and a skilled tracker, but I have no need for power. Amun can say what he wants about our need for social interaction and allies, but I know what he's doing; he thinks he can run against the Volturi in the race for gifted vampires. He thinks we can win this war, even if we've lost every battle in the past centuries, even if the Romanians seem to have given up.

He thinks he can be a god again.

I nod and smile pretty when he brings it up, because who doesn't want divinity? What kind of girl turns down being worshipped?

As Carlisle uses warm eyes to placate Amun, as his honey-drip voice ushers away the hackles of threat that have hunched my husband's back, I know what sort of woman could. She would be content to follow Carlisle anywhere, to be the woman who offers him compassion when he's given all of his away to the world.

I'm silent and sweet, but I'm not that woman. I need more. I can't just be Amun's other half for my entire life, and so I do a reckless thing. I do a selfish thing.

That night, when my mate has gone to hunt, I stay behind to keep an eye on our guest. Amun thinks nothing of it, and I don't blame him; I've yet to even speak to Carlisle Cullen.

But Carlisle doesn't seem surprised when he looks up from his book to find me swaying from side to side in his doorway, contemplating whether to enter or flee, and oh, that smile. That sacred sunshine smile. I want to paint the walls with its color. I want to bottle it up for when the sandstorms force us inside, a respite from the blustering of the wind, the blustering of my husband's words.

"I'd like to show you something," I almost whisper, and why is my voice so high, so brittle? He stands immediately, without question, and there's not even a moment to consider the fact that I've _spoken_ to him. I can't remember the last time I talked with a man just because I wanted to, not because I was conveying a message for Amun, not because he needed me to put on a deceptive front and speak for us.

"Of course, Kebi" is all he says, and he follows me outside. He doesn't try to crowd the night with chatter, and when he sinks to the ground beside me, the desert swallows him up. He just belongs.

I've never had to start a conversation before, and I falter a bit, burying my hands in the sand and trapping my words on the roof of my mouth with my tongue. So I don't know how he sees it anyway, but there's a quick intake of breath from him and then "It's . . . endless" as his focus turns to the expansive savanna, and this becomes simple.

"You see it," I murmur, relieved, and there's a moment where I want to reach for his hand, but I manage to quell that urge.

"I'm not exactly sure what you mean." He tilts his head. "But I see God in moments like these."

"Your Christian God?"

"Yes," he agrees.

"Tell me about Him."

And he does. He shares a story of one deity, one all-powerful being who rules with a gentle hand and loves us all. Who forgives us all.

Then I tell him of Nut, the sky goddess who stretches across the horizon and reaches a hand down to cup her husband's cheek in his slumber, and of Geb, the earth god whose deep breaths in his sleep make the sands blow across the plain of the desert that is his chest. When a particularly loud gust of wind howls through the darkness, I point out how the stars twinkle to Carlisle and tell him that Nut is laughing as her lover snores.

"I do see it," he breathes, and then I can't stop myself from taking his hand in mine.

"I only want a friend," I say, because I don't want there to be any confusion between us, and he just nods, doesn't question me. Guilt dries my tongue for a minute when I think of how I'm sentencing him to an eternity of Amun's distrust and hate by claiming him like this, and I can't speak. I'm being selfish.

I don't care. I want Carlisle's companionship for me, because I'm not that compassionate, self-sacrificing woman who could give this up for the good of my mate, for the good of my new friend.

Because I want more.

"Carlisle, that script you spoke of?"

"The Bible," he supplies.

"Yes, that. May I borrow it?

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**Author's Notes:** I'd like to state up front that I don't intend to interject any religious opinions of my own into this story, but discourse on the matter will provide the frame for Kebi and Carlisle's relationship.

Thank you to those that put this little tale on alert this week, and as always, thanks for reading! I should post again no later than next Wednesday.


	5. Chapter Four

Five thousand years into eternity, I'm still recovering my memories.

When Amun hits me, I hear my mother.

I hadn't really known her in my human life—I was sold off to repay my father's debts at five or six, at most—but when I fall to the floor of that hut in Athribis, when I feel the packed earth below my knees, I'm in the kitchen with her, kneading dough and gutting catfish. Well, she is. I'm on the floor, waiting her out, refusing to help prepare a feast for the other woman Father's brought home.

I want her to divorce him—to, at the very least, say that she won't put up with such treatment—but my mother is not one for action, just smiles. _For the flowers, we water the thorns_, she says again and again until I want to tear the words, her crutch, away from her.

Amun is coming to, retracting and releasing the fingers of his fists and even looking around the room, as if not sure where he may find me. When his eyes finally rest on my huddled form, they try to pin me with their apology, with their devotion, with that unspoken emotion between us I've always called love.

I know what comes next: the flowers.

"Sweet Kebi," he croons as he gets down on my level, and I'm not. I'm not sweet. I'm not compassionate.

I'm not smiling.

I'm running. I'm a snarling, spitting whirlwind of fury blowing across the savanna, and I don't turn when I sense an approach behind me. Amun's proven himself the dominant time and time again, so I push myself harder, fuel my legs with the terror, and run until his anger and desperation are only the hum of the sand and wind around me.

Until I'm alone.

I wish it could be for a longer period of time, but I can't stay on the open plains of desert, lest Amun track me down within the hour, so I follow the dense stench of human activity.

I quickly reach Beirut, a city I've never visited and only know as the source of the silks Amun brings home when he's been gone far too long for me to forgive. Even though it trades in opulence, the slums I immediately seek vary little in appearance from other urban centers, and its only once I've sequestered myself indoors that I stumble upon Beirut's other claim to grandeur: opium.

It's as good a hiding place as any, amongst the timid crop growers who dare not call me out and the smugglers who have been trained not to. They live in a constant haze of the drug, and I see them rationalizing my presence: she's an addict, with that sickly pallor to her skin; the boss's girlfriend, sent to keep us in check with those deadly eyes. I live in the dusky shadows, and when someone comes too close, intent on discovering my inhuman qualities, I pick them off.

No one cares. No one really takes any note of me, and that's what I need. I've never wanted to be a legend, a god. I can spend the rest of eternity right here, and I prepare to do so.

The first night is time spent analyzing the footfalls of every person in the neighborhood, straining to pick out the minute differences that identify our kind.

By midway through the second night, I've resumed breathing.

By the morning after, I can't even if I try.

His scent is fading from my clothes, from my skin. I claw at my hair, bring strands to my nostrils and inhale, knowing he should be there. And he is, but it's markedly less. He's evaporating. _I'm_ evaporating, because I'm nothing without him.

The thought bullies its way in, and I shove it right out. I'm fine right here. He's obsessed with being someone again, with sainthood, with scaling Olympus. I've never needed any of that.

I only need him. His love.

But I've never had that either.

But I've never just taken it.

The thoughts are careening back and forth, and I become aware that they're doing so in my gut, that I'm actually in _physical agony_. I hunch forward and wrap my arms around my mid-section, the move instinctual even though I can't remember the last time I felt pain not dealt by the back of a hand.

I don't move.

On day six the ache behind my ribcage ceases, and instead there is burning. My skin. My eyes. My throat. There is no thirst, no need for blood, just the shrapnel coating the inside of my veins that begs me to balm them with him or else split my wrists open and set them aflame.

I wonder if stone teeth drawn against marble flesh might spark.

A girl comes in—I don't know or care what day it is—looking for either a hit or a lover lost to the trade. She finds me instead, and she gets so close I'm breathing in the salt of her breath, the iron evaporating up through her skin.

I let her live, and that is how Amun finds me: on the floor, clawing at the rash under my skin, pathetic, no goddess.

His lips are a salve.

The slap is an echo, the kick an ache behind my ribcage that's precursor to so much more if I don't let him kiss me again.

So I do.

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**Author's Notes:** I'm late, sorry! Travelling and family and just life in general got the better of me. Still, I'll aim for next Wednesday again, if not sooner. Thanks for reading!


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